The following is from Tatyana Tolstaya's story collection, Aetherial Worlds. The 18 stories are a blend of humor and poetry, exploring politics, identity, love, and loss. This is Tatyana Tolstaya's first collection translated into English in over 20 years. Her previous books include White Walls, The Slynx, and Sleepwalker in a Fog. For 12 years, Tatyana Tolstaya was a host on The School for Scandal, a Russian talk show covering culture and politics.

Things, as we know, disappear—often under strange circumstances—and they don’t come back. That which happens with socksandthewashingmachineisknowntoall.It’sauniversal mystery,andsomeevenrefertothewashingmachineasa“sock eater.”

Of course, there are rational explanations for this strange and selective disappearance phenomenon. Basically, three of them:

1. The washing machine sucks the socks in through the holes in the drum during the spincycle.

This explanation is ignorant and ridiculous.

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2. Socks get entangled in the other laundry, perhaps slippingintothecornersofduvetcoversandstaying there quietly, like flattenedmice.

Thisisn’tactuallysomuchanexplanationasitisanattempt at avoiding one—every experienced doer of laundry, furious at yet another disappearance, shakes and turns all bed linens insideout.Andbesides,duvetcoversmustbeironed—thereis no place tohide.

3. You’re imaginingthings.

Nope,notimagining.Ispentalmostadecadeinanapartment I absolutely loved, but all good things must cometoan end,andIhadtomoveout.Theapartmentwasstrippedbareto thewallpaper,andIendeduptakingthatdown,too,bywayof revenge on the new tenant, ayoungcommunist-turned-priest, who pulled some political strings to evict me unfairly,justas theraindidtotheitsy-bitsyspider.NotonlydidIstripoff thewallpaper,Ialsoremovedallthedoors.Sowitheverything opentoview,inthecorners,undertheghostsofbedsandsofas, afewsockswererecovered.Foursocks,tobeexact,unmatched.

I had long suspected that my washing machine was up to no good, so I developed a system: any unpaired sock that was extracted from it, instead of getting thrown out, was carefully stored in a special box. Times were tough—Soviet tough—good socks didn’t grow on trees, and I had two boys and my husband to think of: that’s six feet total! But I wasn’t saving these socks out of poverty or thrift, but rather out of spite. The machine’s name was Oka. She was semiautomatic. I hated her. And so, after recovering those four single socks and finding their pairs in my sock box, I counted the rest: there were forty-seven single socks. Forty-seven! That’s what my “Oka” had swallowed in eight years. So no, I’m not imagining. Not at all.

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*

Other things dear to one’s heart also tend to disappear: they were just here, and now they’re nowhere to be found, but no onecouldhavetakenthem,andthereisnoexplanationforthis. Thatlittlejar—itwasjustonthisshelf!Whereisit?Wheredid it go?

But never does it come to pass that you open up your closet and wham—there is an extra jar, out of nowhere. Or that a third boot suddenly appears next to an existing pair.

“Times were tough—Soviet tough—good socks didn’t grow on trees, and I had two boys and my husband to think of: that’s six feet total!”

So this means that the universe in not symmetrical! Someday I’ll write a story about its creation and describe the structure according to which it was built, as it presents itself to me. But not now. Right now, I’d like to say the following: If things disappear into “who knows where,” there must be a “there,” some unknown location where all this stuff is just sitting, piled high or neatly placed on shelves—we don’t know. Maybe that world is exactly like ours but in miniature; maybe it can all fit in a nutshell. Maybe all the missing things are stretched out lengthwise there. Or maybe they’re rolled up.

*

I have an apartment in Saint Petersburg. I don’t get to spend much time there. It’s like a dream—everything is in its proper place, nothing gets moved or changed. Sometimes my friends or my siblings spend the night there, but, out of politeness and tact, they don’t move furniture around and don’t scatter theirstuff,butratherglidethroughthestillair,pullinguptheir legs so as not to touch the parquet floor. All they might leave behindisapackageofsmokedsalmoninthefreezer,asapleasant surprise for when Ireturn.

Butlatelysomeonehastakenupresidenceinthisapartment. He’s small. This year, when I went there, I found a tiny—no more than an inch or so—dagger, dirk, or something, I’m not sure.Ablack-and-goldnavalone.Iaskedeveryonewhocould have passed through the apartment, but no one knew a thing. They were all just asperplexed.

Thenalittlecrystalballwithashortchainwasfound—also about an inch in length. What is it? I said to myself, full of dreadfromthatsensationofadraftblowinginfromanother dimension. What is this ball? Multifaceted, the size of a big cranberry or an underdeveloped cherry.

SomethingtranspiredherewhileIwasgone.Inhabitantsfromotherworlds,paralleltoourownorperhapseven perpendicular—Lobachevskyisdeadandnooneislefttocalmly andkindlyenlightenme—theinhabitantsoftheseworldswere uptosomethinginmyapartment.Theychoseitas...what?A battlefield? And for what—sacrifices? Orromanticrendezvous? Thelatterappealsthemosttomyimagination.Amale andafemale,bothsmall—teninchesinheight,nomore— arranged to meet here for a date, a romantic evening.Hehad asword,shehadasparklyball.Don’taskmewhatthatballis for in their invisible, secret dimension, but clearlyitbelongs tothefemale—allyouhavetodoislookatit.Theymet,were delighted,theytalked,theyloved—thatmuchisclear.He unbuckled his sword, she cast aside her ball. Andthensomeone spooked them, they made a run for it, theyclimbedover the fence, or over the prickly bushes, he held out hishandto her,shegatheredupthehemofherskirt,andtheirheartswere pounding,theircheeksaflame.Buttheymadeit.Nothingelse was left behind.

I took their belongings, set them out on a blue, filigreed saucer—Ihaveonethatdatesbacktoanoldenworldthatwas drowned a hundred years ago. I put the saucer on top of the bedroom dresser, by the mirror; the reflection doubled their possessions. Let them come, let those looking-glass lovers return, I’ve saved all their stuff, they can retrieve it whenever they want.

IknowthatonedayI’llwalkintothebedroomandthesaucerwillbeempty.Except,perhaps,foralong,squigglyscratch made with an unknownobject.